


The Well Rescue

by writer1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fear of Death, Gen, John Whump, M/M, Rescue, Sharing Body Heat, can be read as friends or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer1/pseuds/writer1
Summary: Pretty much what the title says.  I wanted to see this on the screen but it didn't happen, so I figured I would write it.  Just a short and sweet version of what might have happened during John's rescue.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 117





	The Well Rescue

Eurus extended her arm and resting in the palm of her hand was a key.

Sherlock ran, his suit jacket flaring behind him as he tore down the stairs of the dilapidated house and out the back door. Not sure how much time he had left, he pulled out his phone and texted 999, the old well, and the address of his late family home to Lestrade before making a beeline behind the house, yanking open the cellar doors and descending into the dark.

His heart pounded in his chest as his feet sank into a foot of water, but he trudged on using the light on his phone to guide him to quickly find the spigot. It was broken, water pouring from the cracks in the wall. His mind raced as he frantically searched the room for a length of coiled rope or the like. There was another tap for the well somewhere outside, he just didn’t know if it worked. “The garden path,” he said aloud just as he thought it. His fingers came into contact with the rope.

Back outside he ran, desperate eyes searching along the weed-covered path until he spied the spigot hidden amongst tall juniper bushes. Falling to his knees, he ripped violently at the plant until he could grasp the handle. Then using the weight of his body, he twisted and pushed until the rust began to flake away and he heard the creak of metal. Quickly, he rotated the handle full-stop until he felt a shudder through the pipe.

Praying this worked, he sprinted the remaining distance to the well and felt around for the old metal hook that held the bucket and immediately began to tie the end of the rope to it.

“John! Can you hear me? I’m coming John, just hold on.”

He yanked on the rope, testing its strength then leaned over the edge of the well. All he could see was darkness and a faint reflection of the moon as dredges of rippling water cascaded down.

“John? John, talk to me.”

He listened intently for anything over the liquid rush but his demand went unanswered. Without hesitation, he dropped the length of rope into the hole and straddled the rock edge, talking to his friend as he locked his body and bent his legs to descend.

“John, I’m coming. If you can hear me, please say something.”

Slowly and laboriously, he lowered himself. A sharp gust of wind howled through the rock cylinder making Sherlock look up, his foot slipping on the wet rock nearly crippling him. With a grunt he righted himself and, to his despair, he heard the end of the rope slap the wall just below him. Leaning forward, he peered between his legs and, seeing the water was still a ways off, he guesstimated he was only halfway. The pouring water now slowed to a trickle and Sherlock scooted down until the end of the rope dangled just below his wrists.

“John,” he called again. “Please, if you can hear me - I’m here.”

Then he heard it, a soft moan and the whisper of what sounded like his name. It was John. Breathless and faint, but alive. Sherlock let out a sharp, relieved breath and patted his pocket, his fingers tracing the firm outline of the key, reassuring himself it was still there.

“John, I have to fall. The rope isn’t long enough.” He looked once more at the water below him, preparing himself. “If you can, move to the side.”

And with that, he let go, his body tensing as the cool air rushed past him. A sudden shock hit him and he exhaled painfully as frigid water enveloped him, sucking him down until his back struck the bottom of the well. Reaching out, he broke the surface gasping for air.

“John!” he called, his eyes gradually adjusting as he spread his arms wide, hands searching.

Choking sounded to his right and he swam over, finally coming into contact with flesh. A desperate hand reached back and his heart thundered in both gratitude and fear. Sherlock quickly sank frozen fingers into John’s clothes and sharply tugged up attempting to lift his friend from the water but the chain that tethered him to the floor held solid. Another fit of coughing sounded and Sherlock stilled.

“John, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

Blinking water from his eyes, Sherlock made out the shape of his friend, one arm raised where he desperately clung to a jutting rock and his head tilted just enough that his mouth and nose stayed above the water. John was a mere slip away from drowning. Pure panic set in and for a moment, Sherlock went blank, his body completely still listening to the sound of John’s soft, barely-there breaths.

“OK, the key. I’ve got the key. Hold on, John. Don’t let go,” he covered his friend’s hand over the rock tightly.

Carefully, Sherlock took the key from his pocket and clamped it between his teeth. With a few deep breaths, he again dove beneath the ice-cold water. The chain wasn’t hard to find and, seconds after, the clasp over John’s ankle. Forcing his frozen fingers to cooperate, he felt for the keyhole with his finger and lined up the key. Sliding it home, he twisted, pulling at the lock then tugged frantically at the clasp until it fell.

Sherlock quickly resurfaced, pushing his hair from his face and wrapping his arms around his friend. Now that John was no longer holding on for his life, his whole frame shook from exertion and his body sagged against Sherlock’s limply.

“It’s all right. You can relax now. I’ve got you.”

As he said this, he gently manoeuvred them placing John between him and the wall and reached up to grip the same protruding stone to keep them above water. John let out a deep moan as his body shuddered nonstop. Sherlock tightened his grip.

“Stay with me, John. You’ll be all right. Lestrade is on his way.” He winced, “Not exactly promising, but for once, let’s hold out hope.”

“Sh-lock.”

A soft puff of air fluttered and very slowly John turned and pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck. Lips like ice settled against him and fear spiked through Sherlock’s system. His hands tightened on the back of the doctor’s jacket.

“I’ve got you. John, please, just stay with me.”

A few times Sherlock carefully adjusted, moving John so he could rest against him while he switched arms. Fatigue was quickly setting in and he admired how much energy John must have exerted up to this point. And now, as they waited, time seemed to stretch out interminably and Sherlock could no longer feel the lower half of his body. So he preoccupied himself.

“I’ve been thinking, John. About the Hairy Monkswort case. How that ridiculous plant caused me to fall into that pit allowing the killer to escape. That stung. Not the twisted ankle, but having never caught him. The unsolved ones always bother me.”

“And there’s the Holy Trinity case, the one you hated because the priest pushed you down the stairs and you were taken to hospital. I had to go that one alone and you got so mad you couldn’t watch my back.”

“But the one that really raises my hackles was the Pearl of Sussex case. That one was as good as solved until Lestrade came in with an identical gem that started a shootout on the beach. I remember you took a bullet for me. It was just a graze, but to me, might as well have been blown off.”

Sherlock adjusted John’s weight and switched arms again. “You called me a drama queen.”

John didn’t reply and Sherlock panicked momentarily, checking for a pulse. Still there. Weak, but there. So Sherlock continued to talk in the hopes John would come to. It felt an eternity later when he finally heard the sound of someone yelling and a flashlight was shone down on them.

“Sherlock? John? You down here?”

“Yes!” A breath. “Lestrade! Here - can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Sherlock. Is John with you?”

“Yes,” he panted, “We’ll need blankets. Freezing.”

A chorus of yells sounded as more lights showed down. Some time passed and finally, a longer, thicker rope was dropped down. Sherlock shifted, reached for the rope and lost his grip plunging them under the freezing water. Surging back up, he gripped John and yanked his head above water while gripping the rope with the other hand.

“Sherlock, tie the rope around you and we’ll pull you up.”

Sherlock glared at the obviousness of the statement, coughing up water, “Thanks Lestrade.”

With shaking hands, Sherlock shoved John against the wall and wrapped the rope around him, tying a noose knot around his waist and giving it a tug. “Right, time to get out of here.” Then, “Lestrade. Go.”

Sherlock kept his hands on John until he was out of reach then slumped down, his whole body shaking. Relieved, he leaned his head against wet rock listening to the sounds of Lestrade barking orders as they pulled John from the well. _It’s okay. John’s fine. You’re fine. He’s alive. You saved him._ He was cold and exhausted but he smiled when the rope was eventually tossed back down to him.

Once outside the well, Lestrade herded him toward an ambulance where Mycroft sat looking paler than usual. He did a once-over of his brother; suit jacket laid to the side, hair sticking up, hands clasped in his lap. Mycroft’s mind was a fortress that could rival the greatest of intellects, but he was also soft and fragile in ways Sherlock never considered. The sight before him, as unusual as it was, made him realize this was another person he should shelter.

“Here, put these on,” Lestrade shoved a set of dark green scrubs into his hands then turned to Mycroft. “So, how are you holding up Mr Holmes? Can I, er, do, or ah, get you anything?”

Sherlock stripped down to his pants, observing the two men through his peripheral. He knew how strongly the showdown with Eurus had affected him personally and he imagined he knew how Mycroft felt. So he was, in fact, shocked to see Mycroft look up and smile in genuine thanks at the DI.

“I appreciate your kind gesture, Gregory, but I believe I’ve no need for assistance at the moment.”

There was a beat of awkward silence. Sherlock looked from Mycroft, who was ardently avoiding eye contact, to Lestrade, who was staring at his brother with his mouth open, then back to Mycroft who was now fiddling with his vest in an effort to clear away some invisible dirt. Sherlock’s lips turned down.

“Right, enough of that,” Sherlock said pulling booties over his feet, “Where’s John?”

Lestrade blinked and snapped out of his goldfish imitation, “Er, here, I’ll take you to him.”

Sherlock followed through the throng of officers, first responders, and government officials employed by Mycroft until he saw the ambulance that held John. Quiet but sharp words were ejaculating from the back of the vehicle as they approached.

“I don’t need - a bloody sedative! Told you, I’m fine. Just cold.”

Sherlock shoved past Lestrade and moved up to the truck, jerking back the medic’s arm and the syringe. “You heard him. He’s fine. Go bother someone else.”

John sat huddled on the floor of the ambulance, his body wrapped in three blankets like a human-cocoon. His whole body shook violently but he looked up gratefully. Sherlock climbed into the truck and snagged two more blankets, one of which he wrapped around his midriff. Dropping down, he squeezed himself between John and the bench, throwing his long legs over John’s, then, throwing the other blanket over them both, he slid a long arm around his friend grabbing his hands and rubbing them between his two larger ones.

“Hello, John. Are they taking care of you?” His tone was pleasantly neutral as if he’d just come for a visit.

John grunted in response and leaned further into him. Sherlock pulled him tighter and moved his hands to rub up and down his arms and back in an attempt to stop his shaking. His eyes then ran the length of his friend, over the damp hair, pale face, and stopping on the bright red house shoes sticking out John’s blanket.

“You’re dry. That’s good.”

John grunted again, then, “Anderson. He had an overnight - “

Sherlock pulled John closer, rubbing his cocooned body as much as possible, ignoring the fact the doctor couldn’t quite finish a sentence. “Of course, Anderson would have an overnight duffle,” he smirked, recalling the man’s carnal relationship with Donavan and wondering if it had picked back up since his reentry at New Scotland Yard.

“Was nice of ‘im,” said John.

Sherlock stopped rubbing and settled for just holding John, sharing as much body heat as possible. “Doesn’t mean I’ll treat him any different.”

The corner of John’s lips curved and Sherlock smiled. The syringe wielding medic from earlier appeared, pausing to look at them.

“We’re heading to hospital.”

Sherlock nodded, arms tightening around his doctor as the truck shuddered to life, “Then let’s go.”


End file.
